I am in flight, into the night, with wings not hands, over marching bands. And now I see, rapid yet complete, mistakes of the past: an ugly story And then, on Wednesday, I careen, explode! The onlookers say: "God bless his soul" And it was such absurdity, she sings so sweetly, holds my hand, and ends it neatly. Angels and vultures manned crafts, lost control, stories got old.